


run

by gamux



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 21:02:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3425513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gamux/pseuds/gamux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a hobby, really, pitting friends against friends in a fight to the death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	run

When the timer counted down and the clock reached zero, when the podiums sprang up and the chorus of panicked voices rose to its climax in the symphony of death that would soon be performed for you and you only, when the unlucky few were downed in the centre ring amidst the chaos and the fortunate escaped with their lives - for now - by running, just running, running far, running away,

That was when you smiled most.

Sure , you grinned at each swing of the sword or nock of an arrow, spared a gleeful chuckle for every dropped of blood spilt across the grass, clapped your hands at the soft gasps of the dying as their final breath left them, the shocked cries and screams from those who watched them fall, the triumphant calls of those who had taken the life.

But still, this was your favourite part.

You liked it when they ran.

The spaceman ran fast, and he might as well, considering the amount of it he seemed to do. He and his unlikely partner were known for running into dangerous situations and somehow making it out alive. You put it down to sheer luck. His long legs guaranteed a long stride, outpacing most over long distances. He could hold his own when needed, but seemed more likely to injure himself on accident.

He got lost in the sewers once. You activated the water streams, knocking all his precious torches off the walls and sucking all light from the area. He couldn’t outrun the monsters then.

Dwarves aren’t built for speed or agility. Watching the dwarf - try to - run was amusing. He had a sixth sense for the numerous traps that littered the arena, and by that of course, you mean he was the one that walked into them the most. He wielded all weapons bar a bow and arrows with expected practiced ease, favouring the axe overall.

Once you tempted him with TNT. He took the bait hook, line, and sinker. He was surprised to find the doorway blocked. You were surprised to find nobody can hear one scream in an obsidian room.

The owl girl was named for such in clear ways, you suppose. Graceful, adept, raining death from above with a hailstorm of arrows, similar to the creatures she held so dear to her heart. None could rival her when she held a bow in hand, crouched in the shadows on a roof high above, eagle eyes - owl eyes? - ready and alert.

You clipped her wings and laughed as she fell.

The scientist was used to short distance, dashing back and forth, up and down, between experiments and floors in rooms that could be crossed from one wall to the other in a few steps. He could manage, barely. His sharp wit and quick thinking bailed him out most of the time, the rest left to the arrow expertly sunk in between the opponent’s eyes. He seemed lost without his machines.

Dispensers are machines, right? Click, click, click goes the timer. Flash, flash, flash goes the redstone. Shoop, shoop, shoop go the arrows. They make a delicious sound when they’re embedded in flesh.

The gray faced man wasn’t fond of running. He was aggressive, liked to fight, pointing the business end of his sword at anyone who even looked at him the wrong way. When he had a problem he faced it head on, and sometimes died trying. You especially liked it when that happened. He liked dirt.

Because dirt was stable, unwavering, reliable. Not like sand. Sand is fickle, it changes, sometimes it’s there and sometimes it’s not and you’re falling, tumbling down, being dragged, down, down, into a deep abyss that had been hidden just below the surface of the sand.

The architect could run, but often didn’t, standing by his partner-in-crime’s side to champion whoever dared stand against them. He was light on his feet, with an impeccable sense of balance that had been born of years spent teetering on the edge of unfinished buildings. He knew how to handle a sword, and could analyse buildings quickly, mapping out weak points and the best exits in a matter of seconds.

One would never expect a building to turn on them. You can hide sticky pistons pretty well, not to brag. When he went to sleep and woke to find the walls had closed in on him in the night, the only exit he could find was death.

The pool boy ran plenty, much preferring flight to fight, fleeing at the first sign of trouble. He was weak but there were a few hidden strengths to be seen. He was thin and flexible, able to make a hiding place in anything and escape from sticky situations like no other. He was an expert swimmer, strong and fast, he could survive underwater for longer than the average player.

The water is murky, and air gaps are few and far between. Better hold your breath.

The woodland sprite loved running, sprinting ahead even when there was no danger to be found, weaving circles and figure eights around his brunette companion, despite the boy’s protests. He leapt from building to building with the same ease he would hopping from tree branch to tree branch in his forest home. He was skilled with a bow, brave with a sword.

One time he ran straight off the edge of a building, the solid ground inexplicably vanishing from right underneath his feet. You enjoyed the delayed shout, the crunch of bone against rock, and the wails of distress from his companion.

The boy endured plenty of running, trying to keep up with his blonde haired friend. He was clumsy, and tripped over his own feet more so than the obstacles specially designed for the same task. Weapons were never steady in his hands, and his legs were never steady when faced with a dangerous jump, do or die, do and die, his friend always encouraging him from the sidelines.

He missed the jumps a lot, and you liked that.

The Ender one never ran. He jogged, occasionally, and only ever briefly, to catch up with the redhead, or get within earshot to call her back, but he walked or teleported otherwise. Ruining your fun, that. He fought gracefully, skillfully, brilliant with most hand-held weapons, a master in his domain of magic and mystery. Proficient with potions, he knew how to use them to their full devastating potential. When you allowed it.

One time you banished all magic from the playing field while he was teleporting over water. The unearthly hisses and shrieks and the sizzle of water-burnt flesh was music to your sore ears.

The redhead couldn’t keep still. Odd that she find such strong companionship in the calm, collected and still mage. She ran and jumped and climbed and bounced and fought and never seemed to be out of breath at the end of it all. Balanced skill in all weapons except magic, despite how hard she tries. It hurts her so much when her clumsy hands and absent mind resulting in a mess at the brewing stand.

She had a tendency to set things on fire, and you suspect she’s about as human as her companion mage. Wouldn’t it be a shame - ha, ha ha - if she were to find herself trapped in a wooden building, and accidentally cook herself alive? Again?

When the last victim was slain and the victor stood tall and proud amongst their felled friends, when they approached the centre ring and you touched down in front of them, launching into the same routine congratulatory speech, when their tired smile faded and you saw the glint of your diamond blade reflect in their wide, fearful eyes, bloodshot white against their dirt smeared and battle scarred face, when the panic began again and they attempted to flee, from you, in the very place you created and designed and had laboured so lovingly over,

That’s when you smile again.

Oh, how you loved it when they ran.


End file.
